Odyssey of a heroPart 3
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Part 3
And the hostility grew. One by one his colleagues fell away and he and Jameson stood alone. The bishop under whom he had labored said a war between the United States and Japan was inevitable and declared that all the Japs ought to be driven out of the Idaho beet fields. He said Japan would conquer China and then come over and conquer the United States, and his talk excited people and made them argue for a large army and navy. He said all aliens should be driven from the nation’s shores. He said the depression had been caused by the millions of foreigners here, most of whom were communists and spies and the scum of earth. He said that any man who talked of peace when his country was surrounded by enemies was a communist and a traitor. “And you,” he said, looking at John with angry eyes, “you’d better watch your step.”
“I believe in peace,” John said. “And so did Jesus.”
“Our Lord, yes. But what did He know of the menace of Japs and communists and Fascists?”
And the legend grew. It was rumored that John Benton and Arnold Jameson were communist agitators. Hadn’t they defended the Jews? And what were Jews but the worst damned breed of communist on earth! Didn’t they think that the confounded Japs should be allowed to thin Idaho beets, even though Idahoans starved? If they weren’t communists, then what in hell were they?
And John Benton, bewildered, terrified, felt the growth of a mighty unfriendliness. Idlers in pool halls, on the streets, looked at him with skulking eyes. Men who had introduced him as our distinguished citizen did not speak to him now. He wrote a letter to his local paper, summarizing the argument of an eminent American who said Roosevelt might lead the nation into war to save his face. And then the crisis came.
The paper declared one morning that Jameson had made remarks to his classes which were false and subversive and communistic, and that John Benton was in the pay of Russia. It demanded the dismissal of the one and the resignation of the other; and two days later Jameson was called before the trustees. There were five members on the board, including John; Cuthwright, the banker; a druggist; and a lawyer and the editor of the local newspaper. They sat at the head of a long table in the banker’s office and Jameson came in, looking anxiously from face to face. Cuthwright waved him to a chair.
“Jameson, have you anything to say in your defense?”
“What is the charge against me?”
“Why, that your teaching is subversive. It is dangerous to the welfare of our government.”
“Because I preach peace?”
“Because,” said Cuthwright impatiently, “you talk like a communist.”
He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. He was a big man with stern jaws and a paralyzing gaze. “A week ago you said in your class in history that the World War was a mistake and we entered it because our statesmen were outwitted by the English. You implied, as I understand it, that we’re a nation of fools—”
“I was quoting,” said Jameson, “from a book.”
“What book?”
“A book by Walter Millis called The Road to War.”
“Oh, and what in hell does he know about it? Who is he—a communist?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, you don’t think so. Jameson, I should say that before you try to instruct the minds of our sons and daughters you’d find out who an author is. He may be only a paid agent of Stalin. Besides that, you said all wars have been stupid.” Cuthwright looked at his notes. “You said England and the United States don’t intend to let Japan dominate the East. Why in hell,” demanded Cuthwright angrily, “shouldn’t we dominate the East? You mean to tell me you’d let a bunch of Japs do it?” Cuthwright thumped the table. “And you said the United States should boycott Italy if it invades Ethiopia. What in hell is it our business if they go down and fight those niggers? And where are we to sell our goods if you communists close up all the foreign markets? I suppose you’d let England sell guns and stack ours up in the Metropolitan Museum! Well, do you deny any of those statements?”
“No.”
“All right, Jameson, we’ll have to ask for your resignation.”
Jameson was very pale now but his gaze was unwavering. “For more than twenty years I’ve lived here and taught here.”
“I know, I know, Jameson. We’re sorry about it. But our duty—what you don’t understand, Jameson, is that the welfare of the State is greater than that of any individual. You didn’t use to be a communist.”
“And I’m not one now.”
“Well, any man can hide behind a definition. Anyway....”
John Benton wondered afterwards why he did not speak up in defense of his colleague. “I’m a coward,” he told his wife. He paced the room, agitated. “I’m a coward!” he cried. “I can see it now!” And a week later, when the local paper again called him a communist and demanded in a long editorial that he resign from the board, he shook all over. He felt the nameless dread of his youth. And when his fellow trustees called him into conference behind a locked door, he trembled with anxiety and turned to them a face as white as death. They asked for his resignation. They asked if he had anything to say. He looked at them and every one of them, it seemed to him, was a man at ease, plump, secure, certain. He rose to his feet. “Yes,” he said, his voice shaking, “I have something to say. It’s perhaps the last thing I’ll ever say. Yes, I want to say that I fought in the last war. I know a lot of men who fought in the last war. Where are they? Dead—like Harlan and Roscoe and Ainsworth.” He licked his dry lips. He placed hands on a table to steady his shaking frame. “But you didn’t fight in that war. Did you?—did you?—or you? No, you’re Goddamned right you didn’t! But I did. And I was not a coward, either!” His voice was a little wild now. “I was decorated for bravery, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I?” he demanded, with humorless tragic pride. “And I came back and hated war and I spoke against war, and what did you do to me? What did this town do to me? I’ll tell you: it made a street bum out of me. You did! You’re liars if you say you didn’t. A street bum—a drunkard—a fool, because I hated war and spoke against war. And then,” he said, his face awful in its white anguish, “then I favored war, I did, and—and you turned against me again. I couldn’t please you,” he said, with dry choked bitterness. “Just like Jameson couldn’t—nobody can, nobody! Nobody,” he said. “And then—then I preached peace and you liked me and I had friends and I liked to preach peace and I was happy. I had friends. Everyone was my friend: you—and you. Everyone,” he said, proudly. “Everyone. But now—now nobody speaks to me and they call me a communist, and I’m not a communist, but nobody can please you. I can’t, Jameson couldn’t, nobody could.” His voice fell almost to a whisper, anguished and tragic and hopeless. “I fought in that war and I was decorated for bravery and I’ve tried to make everyone like me. But nobody can please men like you! You don’t want war and you don’t want peace and—nobody!” he cried, wildly. His mind darkened and there was something terrible in his eyes now. He advanced a little, his body shaking. “I—you—” he said. The muscles in one cheek twitched. “I fought in that war and I was decorated!” He leaned forward, searching their faces with dark and unreasoning eyes, searching for friendliness and goodwill. “Three nations decorated me for bravery,” he said. He hesitated, groping, lost. Then he smiled and his smile was more chilling than his words. “I—” He stopped, trying to understand. “I’d fight again,” he said, softly, terribly. He laughed, and the trustees rose and backed away from him. “I’d fight again,” he said, softly, terribly, advancing toward them. “Honest!” he declared, clenching his lean hands. The knuckles on his hands were as white as his mouth. “I’d fight again,” he said.
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